The Raid
Harry glanced to his right as the various pairs of Aurors tentatively made their way towards the building. He could see with a feeling of satisfaction that everyone was following their training. Kingsley had been correct; skilled witch that she was, Hermione would not have moved with the same degree of efficient control as the Aurors were displaying this morning.
He glanced back towards Tom and noticed that it was now his own turn to move. They were moving in a "cover formation" - each man would crouch into an advance of ten yards or so into a new position whilst his partner provided cover. Realising that it was his turn to move, Harry quickly crept towards the water tank and old canisters he had spied earlier and settled into position near the door, his wand out and his eyes sweeping the vicinity.
`Clear,' he whispered to Tom who took this as his own cue to scuttle across the last remaining patch of open ground to join Harry. Both men glanced along the length of the building to where Mark Savage lay poised to enter the door at that side. Harry suppressed a grin despite the seriousness of the situation. One result of Kingsley's order to keep Dawlish with the reserve was that Mark had been forced to partner Zabini. His friend had not been happy with the arrangements and had even gone as far as to threaten Blaise with physical harm if he cocked up.
However amusing Harry found that particular arrangement, he knew that they were now all in deadly earnest. He stared directly at Mark and raised his arm, making a fist as he did so to indicate that he and Tom were ready. He saw Tom place his hand on the door handle and suppressed a shudder as he remembered the last time he was in a similar situation. Strangely, the memory served to strengthen his resolve and when he saw Mark return his own signal he felt a sudden feeling of relief as he knew that the action was finally on.
`They're ready,' he hissed to Tom. `Let's go; keep your head down.'
With this confirmation, Tom Proudfoot yanked down on the handle and swiftly swung the door open. Harry immediately entered, ducking low to his right as he did so and taking shelter behind the first available cover - which in this case happened to be a rather fine mahogany table. It took a moment for this fact to register as his eyes scanned the room for threats and it was only after he spotted Tom dive behind a green Chesterfield leather sofa that he realised that this vast, ruined warehouse was in fact only a facade for what was apparently an extremely plush and luxurious living quarter. He noticed the same look of surprise on Tom's face as he too took in the surroundings.
Harry took a moment to size up the situation. He noticed that the vast space was extremely well furnished but he noticed too that the whole area was a mess. Empty bottles and discarded plates and crockery littered the floor and he was immediately reminded of the squalor that he had been living in barely a week ago. While this was on a much grander scale, the similarities caused him a great feeling of discomfort and he found himself having to shake himself in order to concentrate fully on the matter at hand.
There was no sign of the Deatheaters. His first glance around the room had not registered any threat and it was only when he looked up that he realised that there were a number of furnished floors to this building. He scanned to his right until he found what he was looking for; a flight of stairs that led to the upper levels and - hopefully - to where the targets were. He was again struck by the richness of his surroundings; while from the outside the building looked like a derelict warehouse, inside it resembled the abode of a rich man. Lucius wasn't kidding when he said they didn't need money; this must have cost a fortune. One thing was for certain; this was the right place.
He caught Tom's eye and pointed towards the stairs, moving his hand in a circular motion to indicate his intent. Tom nodded his understanding and both men glanced down the length of the room to see that Mark and Blaise had come to the same conclusion. Mark was pointing to the upper levels and it was in complete silence that the four men made their way towards the stairs. Harry was careful where he stood; the floor was covered in debris and it occurred to him that the inhabitants of this place were behaving true to form; they contaminated wherever they went and he suppressed a shiver when he realised just how close to living like these people he had come.
He kept his wand held at the ready and was pleased to see that Tom did likewise. Just as he neared the stairs he heard Tom suddenly hiss and when he turned to his friend he saw him look towards the others in horror. Turning to where Tom was looking, he was initially confused until - with a feeling of dread he watched Blaise - who had been attempting to navigate through a small gap between a table and a wine cabinet - suddenly stumble and crash into the cabinet. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, the cabinet teetered before finally toppling with a crash that echoed throughout the entire building.
The four men shared a look before Harry regained his wits and sprung into action. Knowing that the noise had been loud enough to wake the dead, he sprang towards the staircase fully aware that all further attempts at silence were pointless. He charged up the stairs, vaguely aware that Tom and Mark were right behind him and when he reached the top some instinct - almost like a sixth sense - told him to duck and as he threw himself to the floor he felt rather that saw a jet of purple light flash past his cheek in the space where moments before his head had been placed. He rolled behind a cabinet and glanced over with relief when he realised that Tom and Mark had both safely made it into cover.
He heard Blaise finally make his way to the top of the stairs and watched in horror as another streak of purple light flew past the ear of the former Slytherin and he watched as Zabini flung himself to the ground, his hands over his head for all the good they would do.
Harry felt the anger rise within him. He recognised the spell - remembered all too clearly the damage it could do and was fully aware of who was responsible for casting it.
Dolohov.
He glanced out from behind the cabinet in order to size up the position. This level of the building was obviously the sleeping quarters of the four outlaws and as he tried to locate the position of them he felt a feeling of hopelessness overwhelm him. This floor was even more cluttered that the one below and the numerous objects and items of furniture provided a myriad of hiding places from which the Deatheaters could attack them with impunity. He noticed too that there were even more staircases that led to upper levels and he realised that they did not have enough men to cover the entire building. He knew that others were approaching from the rear but the sheer size of the building meant that it would take time for them to get here. He also suspected that there were no other stairs up to this level - it was a bottleneck.
`Dolohov!' he shouted. `Dolohov! Give yourself up! It's pointless to resist; we have the building surrounded! Give yourselves up - all of you!'
He didn't expect them to meekly submit to his demand; rather he was hoping that they might reveal their positions and it was with no small feeling of satisfaction that he heard mocking laughter coming from the four targets. He glanced across to Tom, Mark and Blaise - who had finally made it to the upper floor he saw - and pointed towards the right where at least some of the noise had come from. It would appear that the Deatheaters had split up.
`Potter?' came a voice and Harry recognised it immediately. `Potter? Is that you?' asked Antonin Dolohov and Harry recognised the mockery in the voice. `My friends!' Dolohov continued, `We are honoured! The Ministry has sent the "Chosen One" to capture us!' More mocking laughter could be heard from the others but Harry didn't mind; in fact he was delighted as the idiots had fully revealed their positions now. He decided to keep Dolohov talking.
`It's me,' he replied. `Come to take you in, Dolohov. Come to put you back where you belong.'
More laughter, but Harry ignored it. Instead he scanned the area where he knew the man to be hiding and as his eyes alighted on a large bookcase on the far wall directly behind the spot where he knew Dolohov to be, he had a sudden idea. Turning round, he noticed that Tom and the others were similarly eyeing their surroundings and drawing the same conclusions as he was. He raised his eyebrow questioningly and was pleased to note that Tom and Mark at least had understood what to do. He turned back to the source of the voice.
`This is your last chance! All of you! We can do this without bloodshed or we can do it the hard way. Believe me when I say that it will not be our blood that is shed if you decide to do it the hard way!'
More mocking laughter and catcalls from the enemy - Harry had expected nothing less. He just wanted them distracted.
`Come and get us if you dare, Potter,' mocked Dolohov. `You might find us a tough nut to...'
The Deatheater stopped talking abruptly. Stopped because Harry had moved with the speed of a snake.
`Accio bookcase!' he screamed as he leapt to his feet and watched with a feeling of satisfaction as the bookcase hurtled towards him. It did not reach him; it did not reach him because Harry had known that the path was blocked by too many other objects - objects that included Antonin Dolohov.
Harry dashed from his cover, throwing objects with his wand as he did so towards the spot where he believed Dolohov to be. Ho noticed that his colleagues were doing likewise; that Tom, Mark and Blaise were hurling everything they could towards the enemy as they broke from their positions and raced towards them. Harry arrived at what was now a massive pile of broken and displaced furniture and quickly banished several objects in order to obtain a clear shot. To his consternation, Dolohov was nowhere to be seen and - almost as if his legs were working faster than his brain - he flung himself flat to the floor just as another jet of light flew over his head. This one had come from his right; somehow Dolohov had wriggled free. He noticed Crabbe break from his position and head down a corridor that led to the back of the building. Turning to his right he finally spotted Dolohov as he too made a break for it; sprinting for all he was worth along a passage that led east. He turned to Tom and they communicated silently, both knowing what was needed to be done. Harry turned and sped after Dolohov knowing that he could leave Crabbe to his partner. He had to assume that Blaise and Mark could deal with the Carrows. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed with relief that James Williamson and his partner had finally arrived but he had no more time to think on this as he hurtled in hot pursuit after Dolohov.
He had travelled for nearly fifty yards when he arrived at yet another staircase. Looking down the passage he could see no sign of his foe and decided that the man must have gone up. Tentatively, he placed his foot on the first stair, his eyes scanning ahead for ambush. Keeping his head down, he climbed to the top as quickly as his crouched position would allow him. Arriving at the top step, he backed himself against the wall and cautiously peered around the corner.
Shit.
This part of the building was still in a state of disrepair. It was immediately obvious that this floor hadn't been used by the new lodgers as the vast space was still filled with old boxes and crates - a million potential hiding places for Dolohov. He had no idea where his enemy could be hiding; all he knew that the man had to be in here somewhere.
`This is pointless, Dolohov. There is no way out; just give yourself up!'
`There is always a way out, Potter,' sneered Dolohov and Harry fixed his position somewhere to the left. He was surprised the man had spoken; he must have known that he would be revealing his position.
`Not this time,' he eventually replied. `You're going back to Azkaban for what you have done, you bastard. There is no way out,' he repeated.
`I'm not going back to that bloody prison, Potter. I'll die before I go back there. I'll take you with me before I go though. You have lived long enough, I think.'
Harry glanced around the room, looking for suitable cover. `You could have killed me last year,' he shouted. `You could have got me the day you killed Ron Weasley. I was a sitting duck, Dolohov. I know you were watching; I know you saw me pass out!'
This seemed to surprise the man for no immediate answer was forthcoming so Harry decided to take a chance and made a dash towards some old crates that were stacked about fifteen yards in front of him. He dived to the floor as he reached them and let out a sigh of relief that Dolohov hadn't had the wit to fire at him in time. The spell - when it came - flashed past a good five feet behind him.
`I could have killed you that day. I could have crushed you like a worm, Potter.'
`So why didn't you?' asked Harry. `Losing your touch, Antonin? Not got the balls for it anymore now you no longer have your master to hide behind?' he taunted. A sudden blast could be heard from below and Harry prayed that his friends were gaining the upper hand in their own battle.
To his surprise, Dolohov started to laugh. `I had the balls to kill your friend, didn't I? We got Weasley, didn't we? I wanted to finish you off but was told not to.'
This jolted Harry, who had been trying to work out a way to get closer.
`So it was Ron you were after?' he asked, feeling sick. But that didn't make sense, he realised. I might have been the one to go in first.
Dolohov laughed again. `Not quite, Potter. We wanted both of you. The decision to let you live was taken after we realised you had survived.'
This made no sense at all to Harry and he allowed himself to be distracted as he pondered on this. He was brought immediately back to his senses however as a sudden Reductor curse was blasted against the crates he was sheltering behind. He scampered to his right as the debris came crashing down, only just avoiding a second curse that was fired directly at him. He crouched low, his wand at the ready as he gasped for breath.
`Why?' he suddenly shouted, desperate to know. `Why did you let me live?'
`Because there are worse things than dying, Potter. Because we thought it would be more amusing to destroy you. Killing you would be too quick. Besides; the Dark Lord killed you and look what good that did him. We wanted you to suffer, Potter, and you did suffer, didn't you? It hurts still, doesn't it? Weasley's death still eats away at you like a cancer.'
Yes, it does, thought Harry, although he would never admit it to this man. He turned at a sudden noise behind him and spotted Tom Proudfoot on the stairs below. Tom gave him the thumbs up sign and Harry assumed that his friend had successfully captured Crabbe. He smiled and was about to signal his intentions when Dolohov spoke again.
`The Mudblood not with you, Potter?' and there was something in the tone of the question that froze Harry's heart. He blinked rapidly, trying to remain calm and trying to ignore the implications of the question.
`No,' he finally managed. `She didn't want the dubious pleasure of your company,' he added.
Dolohov laughed. `She didn't fare too well last time in the Ministry, did she? I'm glad she's not here; we have made special arrangements for her. She'll not do to well in the Ministry today either. She'll soon be joining Weasley,' he added. `And once I deal with you, we'll have completed the set.'
He's bluffing, thought Harry. He must be bluffing. `You're all here, Dolohov. You can't get near her. Besides; she won't be at the Ministry this morning.'
`You just keep telling yourself that, Potter - it will make it harder for you when the blow falls. It won't be long now; hopefully you will receive word soon. In fact, I hope you live long enough to discover her fate. I told you; we don't just want to kill you - we want you to beg for death. You don't have to Crucio someone to torture them, do you, Potter? Killing the Mudblood ought to achieve this, I think. You see; we know how much you depend on her. How much she means to you, Potter.'
Harry couldn't breathe; he couldn't function as the prospect of his worst nightmare flashed before his eyes.
Oh, God. Hermione.
Harry felt a surge of rage burst within him such as he'd never experienced before. He lost all sense of proportion; all feelings of civilisation. He roared as he suddenly burst forth from his cover and sent spell after spell in the direction of Dolohov. He moved as a blur; a whirlwind of pent up rage and frustration that blasted anything and everything as he approached his enemy. Dolohov was sent flying through the air, a stunned expression on his face as Harry continued casting; continued screaming his anger. Tom Proudfoot moved to follow but was himself thrown back by the debris that Harry was blasting everywhere.
`You bastard!' he screamed. `I'll kill you, you bastard,' and the words came out as a screech. He closed in on his adversary; closed in on the man who threatened Hermione and his face told Antonin Dolohov its own story. The Deatheater knew that Potter was going to kill him; knew that his time was up. He did the only thing that could gain some retribution this day, even though it meant his own death.
`Everto Pyrus!' he shouted and a burst of flame shot forth from his wand. Because of his heightened sense of anger, it took a moment for Harry to realise what Dolohov had just cast but when the first of the abnormal sized flames began to set alight everything around them he suddenly knew with certainty what had been done.
Fiendfyre.
He tried to back away from the flames towards the stairs but realised that he was cut off; that there was no way through to where Tom was standing.
`Get out of here!' he screamed at his friend and saw that Tom - after a moment of hesitation - turned and fled down the stairs before he was incinerated. Harry turned back to Dolohov and realised that the two of them were trapped; that they were standing in the middle of an ever decreasing circle of flame.
Harry was aware that some of the flames were spreading outwards; that the mutating tongues of fire were setting about destroying the entire building. He looked at Dolohov and saw only madness in his eyes; a madness that proclaimed that he did not care about the fiery death that awaited him. Harry ignored him, instead turning and seeking an escape route. The flames surged after him, closing the ring in a myriad of serpents and dragons all hell bent on burning him alive. He heard a scream and spun quickly to witness the dying agonies on Antonin Dolohov as the flames consumed him utterly. Gasping for breath, he felt like his lungs were on fire as the roaring inferno sucked all of the oxygen out of the air. He crashed to the floor and tried to Apparate but cursed as he realised that the wards must still be up.
He smelled his hair beginning to singe as the flames greedily closed for the kill; his clothes were beginning to smoke and his skin was starting to burn. He uselessly placed his hands over his head as if somehow hoping to thwart the roaring death that neared him and his last thoughts were of Hermione.
Please, God Dolohov was bluffing. Please, God she's OK.
Although almost bereft of oxygen, the thought of her made him summon his last reserves of will power and he tried one final attempt at Apparition before the fire claimed him. He felt a sudden, searing heat threaten to engulf him before everything went black.
***********
`Is he breathing?' came a voice he did not recognise. `Is he alive?'
Harry groaned and tried to open his eyes but found that they were sticking together such was the lack of moisture in his system. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a low croak. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
`Quick! Fetch some water!' A few seconds passed in which Harry tried to get his bearings but he could not see where he was. He felt as dry as the desert and it was with some relief that he felt a flask placed to his lips. He forced himself to sit up and took a long, deep drink of the refreshing water. It was slightly stagnant and warm but to Harry it tasted as if it had just been drawn from a cold highland stream. `More,' he gasped as the flask soon emptied. He felt another flask thrust into his hand and after taking another long pull he poured the remainder over his head and into his eyes. After a few seconds he found that he was able to see again and he immediately took in his position. He was sitting on the floor in the Atrium of the Ministry and was surrounded by a number of concerned faces. His clothes were still smoking from the flames and he could feel pain all over his body from the searing heat. He staggered to his feet and pushed his way through the crowd as he made his way over to the fountain before immersing himself fully into it. It occurred to him that this is where the drinking water must have come from.
When he surfaced he felt a bit more human and he began to try to take in his situation. He pointedly ignored the various questions that were being directed at him; instead becoming aware of a relentless siren blaring in the background. It was then that he remembered.
Hermione.
Struggling out of the fountain; he barged past the concerned onlookers and staggered as fast as he could towards the elevators. After what seemed like an age, he arrived on the floor where Hermione's office was situated. He noticed that there was a great commotion; that the air was thick with dust and that numerous people were dashing hither and thither in a panic. He shook his head to clear it and - reeling like a drunk - he made his way towards the source of the bedlam; Hermione's office.
When he arrived he felt the despair rise and threaten to overwhelm him. The door to the office had been blasted out; indeed, the entire office had been blown to bits, the only evidence that it had existed being the smashed door lintels that hung from the ceiling; tethered despite the fact that the surrounding walls had been blasted into atoms. He turned away and felt the bile begin to rise in his throat as his eyes alighted on what was clearly the stump of a human leg; judging by the footwear a female leg that had been completely detached from the rest of the body. There was no sign of the rest of the remains.
He fell to his knees, oblivious of the tears that were streaming down his face. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating in his chest; felt like the very walls around him were closing in to crush him.
Oh, God; Hermione. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Oh, my darling. My beautiful darling, Hermione.
He leaned forwards and placing his hands to his face began to sob uncontrollably. He couldn't function; could only rock back and forth as he uttered her name over and over. He was oblivious to his surroundings; oblivious of the hands that tried to console him, of the people that dashed all around him, of a colleague from the Auror office frantically barking information into a hand held mirror. Finally he could take no more.
`HERMIONE!' he screamed and his lungs cried out their own protest at their treatment.
`HARRY!' he heard and he decided that fate was playing one last, cruel trick on him; that he was suffering from delusions such was his state of shock and pain.
`HARRY!' he heard again and it sounded so real. He looked up and nearly collapsed. There she was; Hermione.
She was running towards him, her hair unbound and flying behind her; her face streaked with tears. Her eyes were wide and her expression was a mixture of joy, relief and amazement. He couldn't move; couldn't react to this new reality. Instead, he remained on his knees and watched almost as if in a dream as she finally reached him and slid to the floor on her knees, crashing into him and gripping him so tight that he thought he was going to suffocate.
`Thank God; oh, thank God,' she murmured as she buried her face into his neck.
It was almost too much for him. He wrapped his arms around her and placed his head on top of hers and great, racking sobs poured forth as he clung to her as if his life depended on it. His arms ran up and down her back seeking reassurance that she was real; that she was here in his arms and that this wasn't some final, sadistic trick to mock and torment him. He realised that she too was sobbing and he finally leaned back to see her.
`I thought you were dead,' he whispered as he looked into her eyes. `Dolohov told me you were dead. When I saw your office...' He couldn't finish; couldn't utter the deepest fear of his heart. Instead, he tried to wipe her tears with his thumbs but succeeded only in smearing sooty streaks across her cheeks.
She shook her head. `I'm here, Harry.' She took his hand and placed it on her breast and he could feel her heart beating with his fingers. `I'm here and I'm not going to leave you; not ever again,' she continued. He felt himself losing himself in her hazel eyes; felt himself becoming submerged in her.
`I saw the fire,' she said, without moving his hand. `I thought you were gone too. Thought you were gone before I'd had the chance to tell you that I love you too. That I've always loved you too.' Her eyes were still moist but she ignored her tears.
What Harry felt swelling within his breast at these words was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Not the first surge of magic; not his first ride on a broom or his initial ecstasy at defeating Voldemort came close to the surge of joy that permeated his being at these words. He felt more tears run down his face but this time they were tears of joy; tears that flowed because he finally had achieved the desire of his heart; had finally found shelter in a world that had repeatedly tried to destroy him. He leaned his head towards her and their lips collided - finally collided with nothing between them; no secrets, no lies coming between them.
He was not aware of anything but Hermione; her scent, her breath, the taste of salt from her tears as he probed tenderly with his tongue. He had no idea how long they embraced; how long they clung to each other as they confirmed their love, oblivious to their surroundings and to the onlookers who watched in bemusement as they embraced surrounded by destruction and gore, kneeling together in a sopping puddle of water that streamed from his clothes. When they finally broke apart, they stared at one another, both scarcely believing the turn of events that had led them to this point. He smiled and felt his heart swell in his breast as she returned the gesture and he was struck once again at how she was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes upon.
That smile is for me.
`Thank Merlin' came a voice and Harry dragged his eyes away from Hermione to look up to the relieved face of Kingsley who stood with a posse of Aurors and who now regarded the two of them with something like amusement.
`I'll say this for you Harry; you've certainly got style,' added Kingsley and despite the situation, both Harry and Hermione laughed at his words. They laughed from relief at having survived and joy for having finally found one another. The rest of the onlookers laughed too.
`We didn't know if you had got out,' added Kingsley and this time his face betrayed the worry that had been plaguing him. `I got word that there had been an explosion at the Ministry. You can imagine my shock when I was told that you had staggered in too.' He turned to the destruction and noticed the severed leg on the floor, his mind immediately taking in the situation.
`You thought that was Hermione?' he asked and Harry shivered at the question. He nodded.
`Do we know who it is?' asked Kingsley.
`I...I think it is Claire, my secretary,' replied Hermione in a small voice and Harry gripped her close as she tried to come to terms with the fact that a friend had died in her place.
A flash of pain passed on Kingsley's face for a moment and Harry suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for this man who was trying his best to deal with a world that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.
`Did we catch any of them?' he asked suddenly, knowing that Kingsley would know what he meant.
Kingsley shook his head. `Not alive,' he said brutally. `Crabbe and the Carrows are dead. What of Dolohov?' he asked.
`Dead,' replied Harry and he felt Hermione tighten her grip on him in return. `It was him that started the fire - Fiendfyre,' he added. `He was killed by his own spell.' It suddenly occurred to him that they had been stymied again in their case. Dead men told no tales. Something else occurred to him too. `You have to accept now that this case is bigger than Malfoy, Kingsley.'
Kingsley nodded soberly and watched as Harry struggled to get to his feet. He noticed that Hermione had to help him; that he was swaying as he stood and that he was grimacing in pain from his burns.
`Take him home, Hermione,' he ordered. He noticed Harry move to protest but cut him off before he could speak. `You are of no use to me in this condition, Harry. Go home; get yourself squared up and come back and see me when you are ready.' He gestured with his arm to the destruction around him. `We will be a while dealing with all of this. I'm going to bring in Willie Widdershins and I have a few other things to sort out. I'll be reviewing the raid later too; I want to know what went wrong,' he said and there was a hint of steel in his voice. `You are not needed right now; go home. Let Hermione take care of you,' he added with a smile and Harry decided not to protest. Instead, he turned to Hermione, his eyes a question.
She nodded. `Let's go home, Harry,' she whispered and Harry was struck by the hint of promise in her eyes.
`Home,' he repeated softly, aware that for the first time in his life he had a home to go to.
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